Staring at my reflection, I puffed out my chest and jutted my chin so far that it was almost touching the mirror. I ran a hand through my beard and admired the tattoo of a girl and a panther etched across my forearm. My muscles, built during my career in the Navy, were defined and visible through my T-shirt and, at 20-years-old, I looked manlier than I ever had.
It was 1973 and this was the image that I wanted the world to see. I had perfected the macho man performance. And that is exactly what it was – an act.
I was five when I realised I wasn’t a boy. It was 1958 and my father had caught me rummaging though